


Heathens

by editorbit



Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [22]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, One Shot, Pre-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editorbit/pseuds/editorbit
Summary: His promises are preaches, his laughter is organ music and Jerome is his own little God in his mind.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska, Jeremiah Valeska/Jerome Valeska
Series: Jerome & Jeremiah Character Studies(?) [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1514969
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Heathens

Jerome taunts him. He strolls - parades - across the floor of his personal, plain piece of purgatory. He grips the edge of the hole where the camera is situated and pulls his bootless feet of the floor. He shoves his messed up face in clear view and Jeremiah can see every imperfection, every twitch of his face muscles and every expression they cause - no matter how small and unnoticeable. Jerome utters words filled with empty promises of destruction, fire and rebirths. Jerome taunts him and Jeremiah likes to think it has no effect. 

Jerome talks and talks and talks. Jeremiah is on his fourth cup of coffee at this point and Jerome’s annoying, irritable, rough-from-being-stabbed-in-the-throat voice still sounds through the room. Sentences end and new ones begin. It’s a seemingly never ending cycle. His promises are preaches, his laughter is organ music and Jerome is his own little God in his mind. Jeremiah finds himself being a non-believer, yet a hint intrigued. He blames the splash of whiskey in his fifth cup of coffee. 

Religion is not something unfamiliar to him. He would be lying if he said him and God didn’t have some history and he would be dramatic - yet accurate - if he said God hadn’t come to him - to them - during his darkest times. 

He remembers the nights. The feeling of the fabric pulled up to his chin, the quivering muscles keeping his eyes shut and the palms pressing painfully against the skin of his ears leaving behind red splotches and a faint ringing sound. The sound of Jerome, his screams, his begging and his cries. No matter how hard Jeremiah pressed his ears or squeezed his eyes, the noises ringed loudly in his ears like big bells in tall clock towers. The scent of blood left an almost permanent stain in him. It lingers. Metallic, disgusting and overwhelming. Jeremiah’s sixth cup of coffee is half whiskey.  
Jeremiah prayed she hadn’t killed him this time. Letting go of his ears he folded his hands. He folded them and prayed - no, begged - his own thoughts blending seamlessly into Jerome’s own prayers. Not this time. One day. Just one more day. The man above proved to be seemingly generous. 

He remembers the evenings. The realisation that the door before them was locked and shut, not to be opened until much further into the night, borderline morning. The sensation of the cold evening air hitting his exposed skin and boring through it, leaving Jeremiah’s muscles twitching, clenching and unclenching uncontrollably. The barely audible noises from inside the trailer. It was every evening.  
The thin, worn-out sweaters did nothing to keep the biting cold out and the minutes spent out there are unbearable. Jerome’s equally cold hands rubbing his goosebump filled skin had a minimal effect. His violent promises were empty. Jeremiah stood upon their nonexistent porch, freezing, tired and in the company of his kind of psychotic brother, praying for warmth. Mr. Cicero’s door was always open.  
Seated on the makeshift bed one late night, Jerome squished up against him, Jeremiah thought that if he prayed enough times, their evenings would change for the better. Watching Mr. Cicero disappear out the door, he gripped his brother’s hands and chanted again and again. Warmth. Just some definite warmth every evening, if nothing more. Every evening became every other evening and Jeremiah was fine with that. 

He remembers the days. The silence filling the room to the brim like a gas, heavy on his mind and so loud to be so quiet. The scent of paper after paper filling walls, desks and drawers. The taste of bitter coffee and strong whiskey. Seated in his chair or standing by his desks the expensive fabric he wears does nothing to warm him up and no matter how many glasses and how many cups he goes through, his insides freeze. It’s loneliness.  
He talks. Sometimes out loud to no one about nothing in particular, other times in his head. It’s a monologue and only God’s on the receiving end. He mumbles excerpts under his breaths, repeats quotes in his head and asks - prays - aloud. He keeps the Bible buried in a drawer and reads it sometimes. Every once in a while he’ll find something. Something he needs to find in the moment. A reassurance, an answer, a question. 

"Ya know, we could do great things. Destroy this world and rebuild it. Make it ours."

Jeremiah’s seventh cup is all whiskey and he tells himself it’s all the liquid’s fault as doors open. Jerome is his own little God in his mind and Jeremiah is a believer.


End file.
